Stuffy's Terrible Ordeal

Many years have passed since a desperado committed the egregious act I'm about to share. It's taken me this long to be ready to talk about what happened back then. All I can do to prepare you is to say that what follows is the tale of what may well be the most egregious -- wait, I already used that word -- let's try fiendish -- smiley-napping in the history of stuffed toy abductions.

To the world, he was just another yellow thing full of beanies. To me, he was Stuffy, and he'd been a family member ever since ... I got him. No, I don't know the exact date, or even year, it's a stuffed smiley thing for goodness' sakes. What am I, a kook? You think I should be holding birthday parties or something?

Anyway...

Stuffy lived, for some time, in my car. I'd tucked his little yellow behind in the junk-holder that sits at the head of the console, and there he sat, in relative safety (except for a few sharp turns) for a very long time.

Stuffy's presence in the car was a happy thing. Anytime I looked at him I had to smile. It was only polite since he was smiling at me. Truly, his cheery face was, well, cheering.

But then came the dreadful day when I suddenly realized Stuffy was no longer in his usual place. A quick search of the vehicle confirmed the worst. Stuffy was gone! He'd been snatched! Taken! And Liam Neeson was nowhere in sight.

I barely got my eight hours sleep in that night. (Oh, those days before insomnia -- but that's another, and in many ways sadder, story.) Struggling through the next day I thought of the poor little fellow every time I got into my car and he wasn't there. What could have happened to him??

I knew one thing for sure. He hadn't fallen out. Not unless gravity had taken a few minutes off. No, Stuffy had become a statistic, a victim of foul play. And yet, somehow, I just knew that, wherever he was, he was smiling bravely through his ordeal. That's the kind of guy Stuff is.

A day or two passed while all I could do was hope things were okay for the little guy--that whoever had taken him was treating him with kindness. I was reasonably certain he wasn't hungry or afraid--but that was just a hunch.

And then it came. The letter, cryptically penciled on a sheet of paper, along with a Polaroid snapshot, proof that the message was legit and Stuffy was indeed at the mercy of whomever had written it.

The photo made my blood run cold. There he was, poor innocent Stuffy captured in the cruel steel of a handcuff. I could easily tell he was completely and utterly unable to move.

At least he wasn't being starved. The abductor had provided Stuffy with a Ritz cracker, which, nutritional needs aside, I suppose was better than nothing. I convinced myself he'd been allowed to keep it even after the photo was taken. Which, I will point out, Stuffy smiled for as bravely as he'd ever smiled before.

The letter was written, I believe, in a deliberate attempt to throw me off track. Someone had taken care to make it look as though I was dealing with an elementary student, but I wasn't convinced. How many kids in those grades own their own handcuffs? Nope, I wasn't falling for it.

The message read: "IF U coPrate it'd be sum better fer yer frend IF U do what I tell U."

Sure I'd "coPrate" to get my "frend" back. But what did this nefarious napper want? There was no ransom demand, no directive to go somewhere specific and wait for instructions. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being toyed with for some crueler purpose.

Days passed. I fretted and waited, wondering if I'd ever see my beloved Stuffy again. Well, besides in the photo. I thought of all the things we'd done together that we may never get a chance to do again. To be honest, there weren't that many, but still... I knew if only I got another chance, I'd spend more time with him, treat him with greater consideration, smile back at him more often!

More days passed. Until, just as hope was fading; just as I'd begun to think I may never learn anything more of his fate, a second message came. And a second photo, even darker than the first.

So. There he was, in a compromising position with some floozy -- not that I believed for a minute he'd crawled under the covers with her on his own. Stuffy had always been a gentleman. Clearly, the dame had enticed him, drawn him in with wiles he'd never had to deal with before.

MY opinion of my 'frend' Stuffy was untarnished. But what of his reputation? The new message made it clear the heartless villain who'd framed him was only too capable of spreading this character-destroying story if these demands were not met.

All the while, I had my suspicions as to who had committed this dark deed. But I had no proof. Nothing I could take to the proper authorities.

I was between the proverbial rock and hard place. If I paid up, I'd be putting myself at the mercy of a blackmailer. If I refused to shell over the $$s, who knew?

As I struggled with this terrible dilemma, some smidgen of conscience must have been at play in the monster's cold heart. If that was true, I like to think Stuffy's trusting smile played a role. Or perhaps their nerve had begun to fail. All I know for certain is that, as suddenly as he'd disappeared, Stuffy was back. The nightmare had ended.

And yet we are left with so many questions, and so many terrifying thoughts of "what if?"

It may never be truly over. 

Cat Scratch Fever!

Yes, I said cat scratch fever. It's the only explanation I can think of to account for the decision we've made.

That being - to keep all of the cats. Yes, Mom Lily, and all four of her babies.

"We'll be known as the crazy cat people,"I told Brent.

"So?" he said, shrugging.

We'd gone over and over the subject. At any given moment you could find us firmly determined to keep one, two, four, none ... it had gone back and forth and around and around. In the end, it was Thragg who decided things for us.

Thragg is the firstborn, a black male with a tiny white tuft at his throat and a single white hair protruding from the middle of his back. He'd also become the runt of the litter after growing at a normal rate for the first five weeks. As he fell behind, the others tended to crowd him out -- he clearly wasn't getting his share of milk, and then Mommy decided that it was time to begin weaning.

To top that off, Thragg took sick, not once but a couple of times. By week six and in spite of our interventions, he was thin and fragile, while the others bounded about, their chubby bodies landing on him as they played. He headed for cover, seeking us out, wanting to be held and protected. And all the while, he got thinner and thinner. His eyes lost expression, his walk became a listless stagger.

It was quite apparent to us that we were losing the little guy. A milk substitute, complete with a pet nurser didn't tempt him. Private sessions we'd been orchestrating with Mommy were no longer working -- she refused to oblige. For several days we rose each morning suffused in dread. Each time, he made his way weakly along and sat at our feet in the most pathetic manner.

As our worry grew, we decided to take him to the local SPCA (from whence Lily had come) for a prognosis. Dreading the worst, Brent could hardly believe his ears when Cindy checked him over and declared, "Nothing wrong with this kitten! He's just a runt." She offered instructions on making gruel for him and showed us how to use the pet nurser more effectively.

It was a turning point. He began to pick up right away, and now, as he nears eight weeks, the tiny creature is rounding out and making gains steadily. Still less than half the size of two of his siblings (as you can see in the photo) the spark is back in his eyes and he's even engaging in a little play.

You'd almost think this would be reason to keep him - maybe only him - but not the others. You'd be wrong. Believing we were losing Thragg showed us how precious each of these tiny creatures really are to us. We love each and every one of them.

And this is why they're staying.

That, and cat scratch fever.

Miss Lily Takes Over

Well, it's official. The cat stays.

I guess I knew, probably from the first second I picked her up and she rubbed her face against my cheek, that this wasn't going to be a short-term "foster care" deal. She was already sizing me up, figuring out my weaknesses, measuring my resolve... No wonder her little cat smile was so serene.

The big question that still remains is: what about the kittens. Brent (who is entirely smitten with Miss Lily) made a crack last week about keeping all of them. At least, I think it was a crack. There was a kind of weak laugh that went along with it but now that I think back, he couldn't quite meet my eye.

The babies, by the way, are hidden away at the moment. When they were two days old, I discovered that one of them was missing from the box we'd lined with blankets for the newborns and Mom. Searching frantically, I was relieved to be guided by its pathetic mewing and finally found it in a large drawer in the centre of our couch.

I took the poor thing back to Lily and gave her a stern talking-to about keeping the babies together etc. Half an hour later, she'd transferred a second kitten there. Another rescue, another lecture.

Brent took time out from his amusement to suggest that she might know what she was about and maybe I should let her do as she liked. So, I lined the drawer with a soft towel and backed off.

In short order, she'd moved her little brood to the drawer, where they remain in spite of the fact that their incredibly rapid growth has resulted in rather cramped living quarters. We are now allowed to see them and even touch them, but I've learned to leave the living arrangements up to Lily, and have not attempted to move them again. We have, however, created no less than four alternate places for them, for when she decides it's time.

As cute as the kittens are, and as likely as it is that they won't all be leaving here for new homes, it's really Lily who's won our hearts. Both affectionate and peculiar, she fits right in.

One of the odd things about her! I first noticed that she was, uh, not exactly sure-footed, the first time she stumbled all over my desk. Further evidence that she lacks the usual grace and balance found in cats has presented itself to us on a daily basis. She trips and slips and has even bonked her head on furniture.

But her lack of agility is only the beginning. However, I shall save more for another day. Perhaps with a picture of her with her babies.

For now, I have to go. There's a cat on my keyboard.

The Arrival

One week ago, on Saturday, March 24th, I received a call from our local SPCA -- just days after registering for their fostering program.

"Can you foster a pregnant cat? She's ready to give birth in the next few days."

I promised to drop down and meet the mom-to-be. The idea of frollicking kittens appeals to me. Still, I know that there's a high risk involved. What if one of the kittens is just too cute to give back? We're not ready for another cat -- not long term. In fact, we firmly decided, after the death of our much-loved Tom (full name Thomas Uriah Sherrard) nearly two years ago that we wouldn't have another pet.

At the shelter, I meet a very small and very young female. She's been brought in as a stray and it sickens me to think that someone decided the last stage of pregnancy was the time to send her wandering alone on the streets. When the cage door is opened she comes right to me and allows me to pick her up. (Her fur is incredibly soft -- reminiscent of Tom, who charmed the ladies with his velvety coat.) She rubs my face with hers and purrs.

Half an hour later we arrived home and, after hiding and being coaxed out a few times she seems to settle in okay. Since she's come sans-name, Brent calls her Lily, short for Tiger Lily, in honour of her beautiful tiger-like markings. (This may make you think she's orange, but she's actually dark with some brown and white.)

Lily proves to be quite friendly and spends a lot of time cuddling. In fact, the next day she's laying across me, purring while I stroke her when an odd movement in her midsection catches my attention. I watch, certain I must be mistaken, but sure enough it happens again. She's having contractions. On me.

"Do you know that you're in labour?" I ask her. "Wouldn't you prefer some privacy?"

Apparently not. An hour or so later I shift her into a cat bed, which Brent has placed beside me on the couch. Lily insists on leaning out of it and putting her head on my knee. It's not until the first kitten begins to emerge that she pulls away, giving my stroking hand a gentle bite for my trouble.

Two hours later there are four kittens, wet, scrawny and thoroughly pathetic looking. Brent and I assure Lily that they're absolutely beautiful. One is entirely black, one has its mother's colours and two are white with some dark blotches.

From zero to five in twenty-four hours!

I think to myself that it should be interesting.

Welcome Friends

The wind is howling outside my window -- a south-east wind that's been blowing since yesterday. There's still plenty of snow on the ground, but it's the end of March -- and the promise of spring makes me indifferent to that. Besides, I like snow, although I admit in its current state it reminds me of a rose well past its bloom -- with brightness gone and shrivelling around the darkening edges.

I should be working on a story, or doing something constructive ... or, at the very least, performing some mundane task. (A relatively simple but accurate layout of my priorities!) Instead, I've decided to come here and make a little nest, a home for my thoughts, a place to record what matters. To me.

For today, this seems enough. A beginning - a toe dipped in the water. A journey with destinations unknown.

I'm very glad you've stopped by.

Valerie